


Summer Wine

by ellebb



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Drug Use, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Light Bondage, Like super light, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, impromptu game of fuck screw plow, knee humping i don't know okay, mysterious notes woooooo, porn with some plot i guess, why does everything i write involve alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebb/pseuds/ellebb
Summary: On a miserable dog day in summer, two miscreants of the 'Wealth defile the roof of Starlight Drive-In's concession stand.  With angst and stuff.





	

Her moan evaporated like red dust in the red heat, her naked back searing with salt and sweat from the high noon sun, as Hancock slowly circled his tongue around her clit.  His tongue flattened and flexed, going back to sliding over her folds, joining the two fingers he had curled within her.  Her hand supporting her against the wall clenched, nails failing to find purchase on the hot aluminum siding.  The leg she had folded and resting on his shoulder was slick with sweat at the bend, unbearably hot where his ropey fingers gripped the flesh of her thigh.  The muscles of her lower back rippled with each twist and tease of his mouth, a ripple that traveled all the way down her thighs, through the other leg barely keeping her standing.

And her fingers fumbled the back of his bare head, his face flush against her sex, as he kneeled underneath her.  She cried out, breathless and thin from the effort of breathing hot metallic air and of treading waves of pleasure.  Each thrust of his fingers, their rhythmic perusal of her inner walls, each pass of his wet tongue over wet folds, each deliberate suck upon her nub of sensitive nerves -- each releasing her own scent, musky and sweet and mingling somehow with the taste of his thick spend still in her mouth.  It all ripened, soured with the tang of wine on wafts of sweltering air.

“ _Hancock_ ,” Evelyn groaned.

She was too weak from the heat and the effort of the first orgasm to attempt to push him, egg him on.  She could only gasp and follow the effects of his mouth on her; she was pliant to every withdrawal, every renewal of attack, her hips rolling obediently to his ebb and flow.  Her sex soaked her inner thighs, his ridged and scarred face dripping with it.  He stared up at her.  And she knew he watched every shudder of her mouth, every twitch of her brown nipples, the clenching in her abdomen as his stiff nose plate rubbed, over and over, against her clit.  His tongue thrust deep into her.

His pit-eyes drew her into their molten fever, and her vision clouded with white splotches, like cigarette burns.  She was building and tensing and climbing, and he pushed her there until she spasmed with a silent scream, a choke, a shuddering cry.  He followed her through, coaxing the full strength of it, with delicious overstimulation on her nub, tongue furiously circling, sucking.  Until it was too much, far too much.  She would fall apart, fall unconscious.

Her leg unfolded from his shoulder, pushing him back.  She slid down, Hancock managing to support her descent enough so she wouldn’t break her ass, until she sat tangled up in his legs.

“Fuck,” Evelyn managed. “You’re better at that than _Cait_.”

Hancock made a sound somewhere between a cough and laughter.

“Is that on the record?” he rasped.

She ignored him for the moment, leaning back on her hands and tilting her head back.  She tried to get her heavy panting under control.  The sun above blazed in her face.  It was made worse by the aluminum roof they sat on, the quilt of threadbare scraps underneath them protecting them from the worst of the metal’s sting.  Especially important considering they were both stark naked.

The ruins of Starlight Drive-In had recently been cleared of ferals, but new inhabitants had yet to be found. It was empty and spacious; perfect for a day of drinking and fucking in the wide open.  They were bare and alone, like a wasteland perversion of Eden.  Surrounded by the monstrous, irradiated foliage, the carapaces of empty cars, they were naked and were not ashamed.

Evelyn stretched across the blanket for one of the glass milk bottles used as makeshift wine bottles.  Curie had been experimenting with creating her own disinfectant with mutfruit.  This experiment had somehow turned into an investigation of wine-brewing.  She took a generous swig of the result: heavy and viscous, a color so deeply red it was nearly purple, mutfruit, carrots, and the fragrant florid taste of hubflowers.  It was saccharin, made heady by the blistering temperature of the day.  The perfume of it all filled her head with cotton.

She squinted at Hancock.

“Don’t go telling her,” she said. “She’ll be pouting for weeks.”

Hancock grinned, cocky.  His eyes ran over her, savouring the glisten of her dark golden skin and the slick on her open thighs.  He pulled his pile of clothes closer to dig in one of his coat pockets.  A canister of jet and a pack of cigarettes emerged.  He inhaled deeply on the chem, sighing, and then lit two smokes at once.  He handed her one, the gentleman.  She watched his eyes glaze over as his world slowed down, the laws of physics defied as reality’s molecules, excited by the dog day’s heat, slowed for him.

“Those broad shoulders and freckles do it for you, though, right?” Hancock asked.

Evelyn drew on the cigarette slowly.  He was smirking, but she wondered if there was some meaning outside of lurid curiosity in his words.  Without the frock coat, he was svelte as a whip and corded and well-endowed.  The sun made a complex, glittering tapestry of his mottled skin.  The dull tan turned a brindled bronze in the oversaturation of the day’s light.  Still, she knew his confidence was sometimes a compensation for his insecurities.  But she was not in the mood to have the mood ruined, and reassurance would be given as soon as her muscles stopped twitching involuntarily.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of our little reformed brawler on a cold, lonely night,” she teased, smiling.

“Maybe.  But I don’t think she’s quite ready to go ghoul.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You two need to work on your pillow talk.”

She rolled her eyes, drinking more wine.  It wasn’t even cool anymore; the bottles had been stored in Sanctuary’s root cellar, transported here in an insulated old cooler.  But the vibrancy of the rooftop seemed to boil everything on contact.  The wine was sticky in her throat, recalling the thickness of Hancock’s seed in her throat earlier.  Heat flashed through her core.  She smiled around the milk bottle.  They had gotten here mid-morning, started drinking, and soon after started the heavy petting.  The day was young and they would take their time: imbibing on the sweetness of wine and the bite of chems and the musk of each other.  Maybe they would pass out at some point, wake up under the studded heavens, immense and dizzying and terrifying, and start all over again.

It was warm and a dream and dark, blindingly bright.  Sweaty and boneless.  Odorous and so, so, so intoxicating.

“Okay, then,” Evelyn said liltingly. “What about… Mac?”

Hancock took his own swig off a bottle.  He frowned, squinting.

“No.  Not really sure why, though.  He’s too…”

The mayor wiggled his fingers vaguely.

She laughed. “I think I know what you mean.  Too--”

She wiggled her own fingers.

“But I would,” she continued. “Wouldn’t make a habit of it, though.  I’m too afraid he’d start to make a thing of the parent thing.”

“Preston,” he offered.

“No,” Evelyn said immediately. “I wouldn’t insult him that way.”

“ _I_ would,” Hancock leered. “If he ever even _entertained_ the thought, I’d have him bent over so fast, the Colonel’d have whiplash.”

She choked on laughter.

“You are a _bad_ man.”

The mayor wiggled his brow at her with that predatory glaze in his blown black eyes, the venomous set to his smirk.  She pushed herself up, and enjoyed that gaze hungrily following her body, her tits.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes, smiling.

“Danse,” she said.

Hancock didn’t say anything, rolling his cigarette from finger to finger.

“Have you seen him out of that armor?” she sighed dreamily, holding up picture-frame fingers. “He’s got an ass you could set a six-course dinner on.  If he’d just shut his damn mouth.”

Unconvinced, he shook his head.

“C’mon.  You’ve never thought of fucking the bigotry out of him?  You know their medbay asks them all if they have sexual relations with nonhumans?  Imagine his face trying to cover for himself.  Or admitting openly, yes, he’s a filthy ghoul fucker.”

She let her voice grow deeper with each image, hoarse-n with each blank veil descending over Hancock’s eyes.  His lips parted a bit around his bruise-colored tongue.  Before she realized what the shift in his predatory eyes meant, he had a hand around her chin, fingers dimpling her jaw.  He pulled her face up, exposing the tender underside of her throat.

“And is that what you are?” he growled. “A filthy ghoul fucker?”

She chuckled.  She was blinded by the reflections off the aluminum island around them, but she found one of his fingers with her tongue.

“Ooh, _doctor_ , please forgive me!” she pleaded, wide-eyed.

Hancock let go, snickering.  He leaned back to raise the jet again.  And Evelyn watched as his eyes crinkled with the cool release of the chem, the minuscule twitches in his thin skin.  She wasn’t much for chems.  It was hard enough to keep her clutch on the edge of the cliff over the alcohol, to keep from sinking into a life of gin and wine and hungover non-reality.  Because her reality was fucked up.  An alcoholic curtain between her and everything was all too tempting.

The chems would be too difficult, too soft and inviting.  Too persistent through her veins.  So it was the sex instead.  She couldn’t tell a bottle or a canister they had to follow a set of rules, and expect them to hold her to those rules.  But Hancock knew the boundaries, the others knew, and no one would break them.  They were all too busy getting what they could take, delving into the brief heat of bliss in the midst of this world of shit.  And she was too proud to fall apart and break the rules.  She had things to do.

So Evelyn wasn’t one for chems.  But neither was she one to get between Hancock and his usage.  He was highly functioning; if he had important plans, he’d cut back until a convenient time.  He seemed to know his limits better than anyone, and there was only one time when she’d found him delirious and incapable of caring for himself.  She hadn’t been happy, but she hadn’t said anything.

After all, she’d promised herself she’d do better this time.  There would be no judgments, no impossible standards.  She would not ruin another person like she’d ruined Nate.

“Nicky,” Hancock was saying.

They were quiet a moment.

“ _Fuck yes_ ,” they both said at the same moment.  They laughed, trading terrible puns about investigating junk and dirty politicians.

Noon passed into the hottest part of the day: those hours after the sun has really broiled the world into a shivering, hazy spectacle.  Their increasingly clumsy laughter and slurred chatter rose over the abandoned concession stand, the rusted cars, the vast and overheated drive-in lot.  The colors were carnival-esque, hot white metal like a glittering white sand beach.  The pitch of her clinging, sweaty hair and his half-lidded eyes.  The golden skin, the cherry red advertisements, the royal crimson of wine, their shared constellations of blue and viridian bruises.

Hancock let his raspy chuckles after some joke of hers die off slowly.  He sighed, sipping at one of the milk bottles.

“I know this is a special occasion, but I am all for more benders in the future,” he said.

Evelyn was silent.  They sat diagonally to each other, propped back on their hands, hip to hip.  She nudged him with a leg, her thigh resting heavily on his side.  A warning.  He stared at her.  It drove her crazy: the way he looked at her.  No matter the mood, whether exasperated, annoyed, angry, or aroused.  The way he took in everything, wanted everything, could never get enough.  It made her want to give and indulge beyond both their limits.

Hancock put the bottle aside.  His hand curled up around her knee against his shoulder.  His thumb drew circles on her kneecap.

“I don’t know what you’re made of,” he said hoarsely. “In my experience, the fearless are either idiots or suicidal.  You ain’t either.”

His hand slid a bit down her thigh, just above the knee.

“So, my opinion?  Takes real cojones to want to _celebrate_ right now,” Hancock smirked.

Heat coiled deep beneath her hot, salt-damp skin, within her gut.  It reignited her pleasantly numb body, the blur of lava her brain had become.  She lowered her eyelids, smiling.

“Life is short,” she said lightly. “Mine might become shorter after today.  We gonna talk about our feelings or we gonna celebrate?”

There was an edge in her voice.  Mean and unkind.  Warning him.  And because Hancock wasn’t a bottle or a canister, he would follow the rules.  Because he wanted and wanted the way she wanted and wanted.  He was as bad in this as she was.

His hand crept to the middle of her thigh, arm curled between her legs.  He was moving slowly, deliberately, eyes bright on her.  Evelyn reclined and watched him.  And he smirked at the sight of her, knowing what she wanted.  His eyes followed the tilt of her head, the sweat running down her neck, the rise and fall of her chest.  In one swift motion, his hand slid the rest of the way down, and his other hand knocked her arms out from under her, clasping her wrists behind her back.  She fell to her back on the tattered quilt, gasping as two fingers penetrated her.

He followed her, hovering over her body.  His eyes were glued to her face, to the way her lips fell apart as he curled his fingers within her.  She was slick with perspiration and arousal, watching him stare.  As he kissed her, he tasted of overripe mutfruit and a floral tang and a chemical bitterness turned sour.  His teeth kneaded her lips swollen and full and then trailed bites along her jaw, just at the edge of painful.  Continuing down her throat, he bruised and laved, capturing the aftershocks of her stuttered breathing as he spread her folds.  

“You don’t have no limits, do ya?” Hancock murmured.

His lean, ropey fingers stroked her slit.  Her hips followed his motions, shifting and rolling, her own smell drifting on the heatwaves again.  Her spine shuddered, and she struggled a little against his tight grip on her wrists behind her.  He chuckled.

“You never know when to stop,”  Hancock rasped with his mouth around her tit. “You greedy cat.”

He abandoned her nipple, despite her grunts of dissatisfaction, to pull up.  He teeth tugged on an earlobe.

“You bitch in heat,” he growled.

She moaned, canting her hips when he finally ran a calloused thumb over her clit ever-so-lightly.

He suddenly pulled away his hand and dragged her upright, bony fingers still trapping her arms behind her.  Evelyn’s head swam with the motion, the heat, the alcohol.  She would have toppled back over, her vision whitening, if not for Hancock’s support.  He dug amongst their scattered things, pulling up his yellowed dress shirt, ruffles shiny with years of sweat and grease.  He met her eyes, waiting for her silent nod, and pulled her arms even further back.  The shirt was expertly tied around wrists and upper arms.

This left her sitting between Hancock’s slender legs, her chest thrust forward and her arms immobile.  He sat back on his hands and admired his work.  She stared back under heavy lids.

He grinned. “I’ll let you take all you want.  Just get me ready.”

He waved at his lap, his half-hard, ridged cock.  Evelyn considered him, working through her heavy breathing.  He clearly meant for her to suck him stiff again, writhing between his thighs with her ass pushed into the air.  She ran her gaze back up.  The mayor always seemed different without his colonial getup to her.  More dangerous.  Like the frock coat was just a filmy screen of civility around his predatory nature.

She smiled languidly.  Yes, she never did know when to stop.  And she had a better idea.

Evelyn scooted forward until her knees brushed his balls.  She lifted up her body and swung a leg over until she was straddling Hancock’s right thigh.  Settling back, he tensed his leg muscles underneath her, her sex smearing her stickiness on his knee.  She clenched with the new contact and the way his eyes blanked and his throat worked.

 _Stop me_ , she dared with her eyes.

Casting her chin back, her body arched a line stretching from her fluttering throat, down her clavicle, through her curved back.  Tensing her leg muscles, she slid her slit against his bony knee, the skin textured and catching against her folds.  Pleasure sparked in her gut again.  Hancock grunted, his leg stiffening.  He stared at her, at the way her eyes glazed and her breasts shifted and jerked with every roll of her hips.

And she rolled and rolled and rolled her hips, pleasing herself against his knee, breathing desperately and crying out softly.  The hard kneecap created friction, and she began to thrust a rhythm against her folds and roll up to slide her clit against a particularly rough patch of skin.  She took her time, gauging his reaction with every shift of her body, every increasingly slippery connection.  Her arousal, his sweat.  Her own knees kept glancing off his sac.  She smiled as his erection hardened.

“Do you--” she said, gasping, “Do you know why you like my tits so much?”

He looked up.  He’d been staring at rivulets of sweat falling down to her abdomen, the bouncing of her nipples.

“What?” he grunted. “Everyone likes tits.”

She slowed to a maddening grind against him, teasing herself.

“That’s true,” she agreed breathlessly. “But I mean mine in particular.  You stare a lot.”

Hancock experimentally wriggled his knee against her.  She rewarded him with a languid curl to the curve of her body, a low moan.  He narrowed his eyes at her and unlocked the rigid position he’d held his leg in for her.  She slid forward.  His fingers crept up to knead her asscheeks.  She nuzzled by his ear, tasting him -- salinic and earthy and a bitter aftertaste, like the smell of jet.

Evelyn whispered by his ear, “They’re fake.”

Hancock pulled back to stare. “What?”

She smiled.  Pulling her leg, its muscles trembling, over him, she re-straddled him.  Slowly, she positioned herself over the head of his cock.  Unbalanced from her bound arms, clumsy, Hancock steadied her with his hand on her hip.  Her statement forgotten, his other hand nudged his tip against her.  She licked her lips, even more heat furling in her core, slick dripping down her thighs.

Their bodies were a mess; reeking of flesh and spent desire, the sun burning them to the quick, their intermingled breath sour with the wine.  They were overheated, probably close to sun stroke, delirious with their own cravings.  And yet, even with them raw from the sear of the summer haze, it was a lightning arch of a new burn as his cockhead penetrated her.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hancock moaned, digging his fingers into her rear.

Evelyn bit her lip, trying to catch the last bits of her logic.  She wondered if he had snuck her a dose of jet at some point, the way it seemed to take an eternity for them to pull her body downward, to push his cock upward.  The slow drag of his ridged thickness against her inner walls tortured her deliciously.  He finally filled her, and they paused, panting, Hancock groaning.

“You’re lying,” he finally accused.

Evelyn rotated her neck, flexing her bound arms, the shirt damp and clinging.

“Trust me,” she said, voice thin and hoarse. “I had mosquito bites before -- that’s the small stingwings.”

Hancock frowned, trying to think beyond the way she was wet and hot and clenching around him.  Which grew even more difficult as she started to pull up, his shaft sliding out.  His veins thrummed, pulsing pleasure up through his stomach.  He watched as the accused breasts shifted with their movements, pebbled as his breath hit the stiff peaks.  No scars or weird, unnatural immobility.

“Darlin’, I’ve seen fake tits.  Those are not,” Hancock grunted.

She snapped her hips back onto him, crying out with the force of her own motion.  She grinned.

“They’re perfect, right?  You’ve seen the work of wasteland butchers,” she said. “But boob jobs used to be an artform-- _aaah_ …”

His grip had tightened on her, pulling her up and slamming back into her, not giving her enough time to adjust the motion of her hips.  He was starting to lose interest in this conversation.  But he was just hinting, and knew she was trying to get a point across to him.

“Why, then?” he asked.

She leaned back into the support of his hands.  She was dizzy and drunk and luxuriantly filled to the brim.  She felt breathless and beautiful as she curved against him.  Her mouth curled.

“Because it’s my body, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with it.”

She rolled, and he rolled with her, their sex separating and meeting with a familiar dance.  They rolled and snapped in a steady pace, their quickening as natural as dawn, as the phases of the moon.  He moaned, low and rough and ringing, as she keened.  Fine, he thought.  She belonged to herself, and herself alone.  But didn’t change the fact that she was here now, writhing in his hands.  One of his hands flew up to cup a breast and tweak the firm bud.

“Ev--even,” she gasped between thrusts, “even becoming a filthy ghoul fucker.”

She tightened even further around him, and he sank his teeth ungently into her shoulder.  Her deltoids shuddered, helplessly pulling against Hancock’s ruffled shirt.  He suddenly slipped his hand between them, finding and flicking her clit to the tempo of their hips.  The fingers slid down further into the dripping mess where he entered her folds.  The hand slipped back around, sliding around the puckered rear hole.

“ _Hancock_ ,” she cursed and moaned, spasming against his hand and around his thickness.

He gently, yet steadily, worked a finger in, thrusting in slow counter-melody to the snapping of his cock.

“Motherfucker, Ev,” he rasped. “ _Motherf-fucker_.”

And they rolled and rolled and rolled, into a single tide, a single entity.  Their logic and their intelligible words were cast aside, even their flesh dissipated into the unbearable heat, the weight of immense light.  All that remained was the desperate climbing over waves of pleasure, the clumsy building of their pressure.  Building a bulwark against what came next, defying physics as they stopped time for this moment with each thrust, each fuck.

And she cried as the cruel insistence of his fingers on her clit sent her over and over, a million times, endlessly.

It was so hot, and they could both taste the overripe wine.

-

He didn’t bother making the joke about brahmin as he woke to darkness, hungover.  No point.  She wasn’t there.

A thickness in his throat caught, nearly choking him.  He coughed, eyes burning, until he spat phlegm that tasted like garbage.  For a long time, he sat, hands clutching his temples like that could stop the spinning of the world.  He hurt enough to black back out, but he made himself crawl around until he found a bag.  He dug out purified water.

Feeling a little less like blowing his brains out and then blowing out Curie’s brains for brewing that goddammed wine, Hancock peered around.  He was inside the drive-in concession stand’s office, and he’d woken up on a pile of ratty blankets on the floor.  The tiny window above the desk framed a sky the pale lavender of dawn.

The world was dark and quiet.  At peace.

And she was gone.  Headed to the airport, where they were building a magic machine for her.  Wasting resources she’d told the Railroad to save.  It would break her down to her molecular structure, a blueprint he’d thought he had come to understand on waves of chems and arousal yesterday.  But he didn’t know shit.

Or he didn’t have shit.  Couldn’t hold on to shit.

Hancock closed his eyes.  He crawled back to the pile of blankets and passed out again.

The next time he woke, the little window framed bright afternoon light.  A piss-poor imitation of the brilliance they’d bathed in yesterday.  He hoped it had just been yesterday.  He pulled himself together quicker than he had before, thinking about the fastest way back to a Minuteman post.  He still felt like shit, but it was more like a brahmin shit and not a deathclaw shit.

A perfunctory injection of Med-x and some haphazard fumbling for their things later, and he was pulling his clothes back on.  He tried to reassure himself that she was alright, that putting back a vaporized person was as easy as the vaporizing.

And then Hancock reached for his tricorn, and stopped.

It wasn’t right.  His hat wasn’t his hat.  Looked a lot like it, but the brim wasn’t pinched in the right way, and the stitching wasn’t in the right place.  He picked it up.  Didn’t even smell right; the old sweat wasn’t _his_ old sweat.  There was no burning chem smell, and there was a misplaced waft of gin.

There was a note in the inner band.

_I am hurtling so fast, I can’t ever change course now.  I hope you can keep up._

Hancock folded the bit of paper, placed it in a coat pocket.  He put the tricorn on, picked up his bag and his shotgun, and headed out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Stay tuned for more misappropriation of songs that never did jack to me~


End file.
